


Dependence

by Ladoga



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angband, Branding, Gen, Supportive Relationships, Torture, internalized shame, self injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-01
Updated: 2017-11-01
Packaged: 2019-01-27 21:35:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12591032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladoga/pseuds/Ladoga
Summary: Concept: Angband makes people psychologically dependent on torture.Fingon walks in on Maitimo.





	Dependence

**Author's Note:**

> -My knowledge of the Silmarillion consists of fanfiction, wiki articles, parts of a summary, asking people things/people telling me things, and more fanfiction.
> 
> -No I have no idea what my brain was doing with the names.

Fingon catches him. In retrospect it’s not a surprise - of course his rescuer would be given a key to his quarters, if he asked, and of course Fingon would ask. And of course Fingon would not misuse it, would not be anything but careful - would have knocked, would have made himself known, would have left and not come like this again if his coming harmed and did not aid. If Maitimo had not - forgotten to think, that such might happen (such  _ details _ of life when he is not alone), had not been too - occupied, to notice footsteps, if he had not  - screamed, nearly, choked off, at just that moment -. 

But as it is Findekáno comes across the threshold when Maitimo stands near the fire, and the burns are obvious on his skin and the iron in his hands is as much so and Fingon stands there, gone silent and pale, and.

There - is probably some lie, that he could have told. And he is _able_ to lie to Fingon (no. He is able to have Fingon _believe_ him, if he lies.) And he has learned - how to arrange his body, his face and voice, how to speak of Angband such that it is horrifying to people as they expect it to be and not _unsettling_ as they would not know how to come face to face with. But Findekáno  came to him on the wall, and Findekáno has the key to his quarters for the asking, and -

“I know why people break when Angband releases them,” he says, and there is barely tone in it. And Findekáno stands pale and does not try to look away. “No Elf should live through Angband. Our souls should not stand it. The Enemy holds us there, with his power. And he - uses it, as he is. It is pain that he makes sustain us. And it does not - end, when we are through the walls. It is - like a mind without sleep for deathly long, not to have it. It twists, or it shatters.”

He does not try to look away. He nods, once and barely. “Forever?” Not like ‘you are tainted’ not ‘for what did I then risk my life for you’. Not ‘that which is corrupted must be driven out’. Like asking after time for a travels, to find the right supply for it.

“I do not know. I - I think I needed less today than a month before.” (Refusing drinks against pain as he healed had aided, when he could not yet rise from his bed. Refusing, and the injuries, still raw enough to wring more agony from even with so little movement left to him. And when he could he was well enough to - find the ways.) “But I do not know if it will - continue. Or last.”

Fingon comes toward him. He is still holding the iron, has not returned it to the fire, and he places it down and stands again (he cannot make himself unable to stand too often, even if it were more simple to find the means alone. Unexpected is concerning is  _ conspicuous _ .) 

“Other prisoners they - did not know?” 

“He - does not say it. And without lucidity, without a chance to  _ think _ -. 

“You saved me,” he adds. Because those who see him have said that he is strong, brings himself to repair with his determination, his loyalty. But it is Fingon who had brought him. “That was - not his plan. I do not think I could have left and known, had he planned it.”

Fingon is next to him. Stands and does not flinch away. Not from the iron, the fire. The marks that even by this time write themselves across his skin, clearer even from so closely by. Undeniable. Exposed. (He wears long robes in public. No one asks.) Nods again. Not like ‘do you truly think it was the Enemy, and not you’, not like ‘I always knew the marring rooted itself in you’. Like a new forge, unknown tools and almost familiar tools and new arrangements. And work to be done. Looks up again, and meets his eyes.

“What do you need from me?”


End file.
